


Shade Without Color

by laquearia



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, In Medias Res, M/M, No Spoilers, poetic storytelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laquearia/pseuds/laquearia
Summary: Trevor is six years old when his father hands him his first practice whip.It’s heavy and much too long to be anything other than a distant dream for his future—a horrifying time of lanky limbs and lost tempers, if Simon or Leon’s adolescent experience is anything to go by—but Trevor knows what the whip means, even if he’s not strong enough to crack it the way father does. He pays attention at family dinners. He knows all of grandfather’s stories backwards. He knows what those tomes in the family library contain.The Belmonts fight monsters, son.Or so he’s told.(In which Trevor isn't a very good Belmont and Alucard isn't a very good vampire.)





	Shade Without Color

**Author's Note:**

> Finished season two of the Netflix series and I couldn't get this out of my head. For those unfamiliar with my other works, I am primarily an angst writer which is likely why this fandom came calling my name after I watched it. This little blurb is just for funsies though. 
> 
> I have no idea how long this will be or how many chapters it will be, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Trevor is six years old when his father hands him his first practice whip.

It’s heavy and much too long to be anything other than a distant dream for his future—a horrifying time of lanky limbs and lost tempers, if Simon or Leon’s adolescent experience is anything to go by—but Trevor knows what the whip means, even if he’s not strong enough to crack it the way father does. He pays attention at family dinners. He knows all of grandfather’s stories backwards. He knows what those tomes in the family library contain.

The Belmonts fight monsters, son.

Or so he’s told.

 

* * *

 

Trevor doesn’t much care for Alucard, to be utterly fucking honest. No surprises there. The vampire—sorry, _dhampir—_ walks a little too silently and stands a little too still amongst the shadows for Trevor to be anything except uncomfortable whenever they’re forced to breathe the same air. The sheer presence of the vampi— _dhampir, dammit—_ sets Trevor’s teeth on edge and slips beneath the surface of his skin, tickling every instinct he has in all the right ways.

_Vampires are meant to be staked, burned, or salted. Any hesitation will get you killed._

It’s his father’s voice, gruff and unforgiving from beyond the grave. Matter-of-fact, as always. Life or death. He doesn’t remember his father with any other tone.

Sypha tells him he’s crazy. She swats at him and gives him those meaningful _I-swear-to-god-Trevor-Belmont_ looks that his mother used to give him over the dinner table whenever he and Simon started fighting about who-gives-a-fuck. She flicks his shoulders, shocks him with a spell, or kicks his shins under the table whenever her gets a little too snippy with the half-breed whatever-he-is. Trevor’s lip is starting to get sore with how many barbs he’s forced to bite back.

Trevor keeps his whip within reach and a silver blade up his sleeve, just in case. The Belmonts are nothing if not cautious.

 

* * *

 

Trevor is ten years old and the other boys in town are starting to eye him strangely. _Black magic,_ they whisper when they think he can’t hear them. _Witchcraft, demons, monsters._ After a while, they stop coming out to play. Trevor doesn’t altogether understand why.

His father takes Trevor’s newly-earned free time and pours more of the family’s bestiary into his son’s brain like a gallon of spiced summerwine. If there’s an edge of desperation to his lessons now, Trevor doesn’t notice it.

He really misses his friends.

 

* * *

 

Trevor awakens just as the first rays of sunlight touch the tops of the trees overhead, dappling the soft, decaying undergrowth of the forest in pale shades of rose gold and butternut. The breeze doesn’t smell like death this morning, and he can’t make out the screams of the nearby city; the wind must be flowing in the right direction for once. How oddly fucking fortuitous.

Inhaling sharply as he sits up on his bedroll, the first thing Trevor sees is Sypha. She’s curled up on her side, swaddled in those ridiculous Speaker robes she refuses to take off, despite the dangers those draped folds present. _(They’ll make you more noticeable,_ Trevor had argued before they left Gresit. _I don’t care,_ she’d argued right back.)

The second thing Trevor notices is—unfortunately—Alucard.

The half-breed is crouched at the base of a nearby tree, perched on the balls of his feet with a frustrating amount of balance and ethereal grace that gives Trevor the urge to go kick him over. Surely seeing the ever-solemn man squawk in protest and flail a bit would be worth the possibility of death.

If Simon were here, he’d likely have already tried, consequences be damned. Leon probably would have laughed himself to tears from a hiding place in the nearby bushes. Sonia, too.

Trevor tries not to think about Sonia.

“Third watch was uneventful,” Alucard says in that silky voice of his, rudely interrupting Trevor’s non-thoughts about people who don’t fucking exist anymore. Alucard glances over, golden eyes glinting in the pale sunrise. “You talk in your sleep, you know.”

“Fuck off,” Trevor grumbles, combing his fingers through the snarls in his hair. He pulls a particularly impressively-sized twig out of a tangle and tosses it aside.

Alucard’s pretty face sours as much as it’s capable of souring—that is, to say, not much. “Charming,” he drawls, and rises to his full height, hand resting gently on the pommel of his sheathed sword. “Your social etiquette is the stuff of legends. I would have assumed Lady Belmont would have taught you better.”

Trevor glares up at him, pointedly _not_ remembering the way his mother would tap his elbows every time they snuck up to touch the top of the dinner table, or the hours she spent teaching him proper court dances that he’s never actually used. He doesn’t remember her scolding every time a swear word slipped out, and he definitely doesn’t remember the lecture he received about personal hygiene after he and Leon got caught playing in the mud pits of the neighbor’s pig farm. He doesn’t remember _any_ of that. Not at all.

There’s a wretched hollowness in his chest as Trevor pushes himself to his feet. “Shut up,” he mutters, glaring at the forest floor. He grabs his empty waterskin and turns in the direction of the nearby creek, intent on taking a walk before he straight-up stakes the dhampir right here and now. It’d probably upset Sypha quite a bit and he’d rather not be on the bad side of a Speaker magician, if it’s all the same to him.

Alucard hums thoughtfully as Trevor shoulders past him. “What, no snappy comeback? I’m shocked.”

Trevor stops in his tracks. His hand twitches, aching to wrap around the handle of his whip, to squeeze the worn leather and release the consecrated fury of Vampire Killer in all its glory. Surely his father would be proud of him. Surely it would make Trevor feel better, if only a little.

What good is a Belmont who doesn’t kill monsters? No good at all, that’s what.

Trevor slumps his shoulders, suddenly feeling very weary despite his rest. He rubs his neck and exhales softly through his nose, letting his eyes drift shut against the warm sunlight that filters through the trees. _Not worth it._

“Alucard,” he says with no venom in his voice. He turns and glances over his shoulder, too exhausted to even muster a half-decent glare. “Shut the fuck up. For once, please.”

Part of Trevor wants Alucard to scoff and insult him again. _Give me cause, just a little._ Trevor wants a reason to stake the monster; he’d _bleed_ for an excuse at this point. He wants Alucard to sneer or snarl, showing off those sharp teeth of his just so Trevor can remember what they look like before he shatters them with his fist. _Come on, give me something._

But Alucard doesn’t do any of that because he’s _Alucard_ , and Trevor can’t fucking figure him out.

Alucard’s stoic face softens _,_ transforming from chiseled, cold marble into warm alabaster in a split second. His eyes glow like soft honey behind long lashes, his brow creases imperceptibly, and that dangerous pale pink mouth of his curves into a faint frown. The expression is startlingly…

 _Human_.

Trevor just doesn’t know what to make of any of it.

Alucard inclines his head forward, tipping his pointed chin down toward the loosened laces of his shirt. Trevor thinks he sees a flash of red, angry scar tissue peeking out from behind the ivory fabric—the scar given to him by his malevolent father.

“Forgive me,” Alucard murmurs, placing a hand over his heart. “I should not have—”

“It’s fine.” Trevor turns away, glaring down at the blackened, decaying leaves beneath his bloodstained boots. “I don’t care.”

Trevor cracks a knuckle absentmindedly and shakes his head, trudging off through the undergrowth of the forest. He can hear the creek in the distance, but it’s quiet against his pounding heartbeat and the chant of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ that’s playing on repeat in his head. It’s so loud, in fact, that he almost misses Alucard’s whispered final words.

“Don’t you?” he asks.

Trevor stiffens. His fingers curl around empty air, longing for the firm resistance of his whip or the cold grip of his shortsword. He wants to hit something, kill something, _kill anything._ He’s just not sure why.

_The Belmonts fight monsters, son._

(He doesn’t really feel like a Belmont anymore.)

 

* * *

 

Trevor is twelve years old and his world is ending.

The smoke is thick in the air and there’s blood on the floorboards, so much blood, too much for any one person. He doesn’t know where Simon and Leon went, just that they tripped on the main staircase and fell behind when the noise started. There are people at the door, in the foyer. An entire mob of them, all chanting and praying with torches and bloodied pikes and _oh, god, this can’t be happening. Is this happening?_

Sonia presses her damp, hot face against Trevor’s tunic and curls her fingers into the torn fabric at his waist. The hem of her pale blue dress is smoldering and she’s bleeding from somewhere, bleeding a lot, but every single inch of Trevor is _numb_ and he doesn’t know what to do about it, he doesn’t know how to help her, _where is father—?_

Trevor Belmont is twelve years old and hiding underneath the fraying ropes of his older brother’s bed, holding his breath and waiting for someone to find them.

Trevor Belmont is twelve years old and his little sister is dying in his arms, hiccupping and choking and he can’t _do anything about it._

Trevor Belmont is twelve years old.

He suddenly feels a lot older.

 

* * *

 

Travelling with Alucard and Sypha is, predictably, the worst fucking experience of Trevor’s entire life.

“For the millionth goddamn time, _no,_ ” Trevor sighs, rubbing a hand over his grimy face. “That town is a death trap if I’ve ever seen one, and no amount of warm food or the promise of straw bedding will get me to step foot inside those gates.” _If they have good alcohol, however…_

“But Trevor,” she whines, yanking on the one part of his cloak that doesn’t appear to be caked with dried blood. Her eyes are bright and her face is dirty, and in the afternoon sunlight she almost looks a little bit like Sonia whenever she got excited about something.

Except that she’s _not_ Sonia because Sonia is dead, dead as dirt, and Trevor isn’t dumb enough to pretend otherwise.

Trevor steps away from her purposefully, ripping his cloak out of her grasping fingers. “Forget it, Sypha. It’s a stupid idea.”

“This town hasn’t been hit by the nighthorde yet,” she reasons, planting her hands on her hips—and she’s right, unfortunately. Even from this distance, Trevor can see that the houses are undamaged, and the fortifications still stand strong. Sypha gestures toward the satchel slung over her shoulder. “And if you haven’t noticed, we’re running short on supplies.”

“So, we’ll hunt and gather some shit in the forest.” He shrugs. “No problem. We’ll get a bit of rabbit, maybe catch a baby demon or two for roasting—”

“Or we could save ourselves the trouble and spend _one night_ —”

“A night that might result in our gruesome deaths,” Trevor reminds her helpfully.

“—resting and getting our strength back before we get to your old estate! Who knows what we’ll find there?”

 _A lot of charred rubble and a library, if we’re lucky,_ he thinks to himself. Trevor sighs, curling his chilled toes inside his boots until the joints crack noisily like frozen twigs.

“Answer’s still no,” Trevor says. He puts a hand over his heart, giving her a dry look. “Trust me, I’m broken up about it. Truly. You’ve no idea.”

Sypha glares heatedly, clenching her fists at her sides. Her face pinches, delicate brows creasing. For half a second, Trevor thinks she’s going to start throwing a hissy fit about lace doilies or the fact that _Leon always gets to go riding in the orchard and I don’t!_ The similarities are really fucking uncanny sometimes.

_Not the time, never the time, she’s dead she’s dead she’s dead._

_The Belmonts fight monsters, son._

_If that’s true, then what does that make me?_

Alucard materializes right behind Trevor’s left shoulder, black hood drawn low over his eyes as the setting sun paints the hillside orange. (Trevor doesn’t jump. He _doesn’t.)_ Trevor watches with no small amount of amusement as Alucard positions himself in the shade of a shrubbery so his face isn’t exposed to sunlight—he’d lasted a few hours today, but it seems he usually reaches his sunlight limit around two in the afternoon. Trevor files this information away for later.

“I am inclined to agree with the Speaker,” Alucard remarks in that annoyingly smooth tone of his—all honeyed vowels and squishy consonants, _gross_. “The benefits of one night spent in proper lodgings far outweigh the detriments. We should venture into town.”

Trevor throws his hands up in the air. “Right, so this is a democracy then, is it?”

“It is a suggestion,” Alucard corrects.

Sypha jabs a finger at the half-breed with a triumphant smile that’s brighter than the damn sun. “A _good_ suggestion. Thank God somebody in this group has some sense.” With a flurry of draped fabric, Sypha turns on her heel and begins marching down the frosty hillside toward the town, gesturing over her shoulder. “Come on, Belmont,” she calls. “You’re outvoted!”

Trevor watches her leave with no small amount of irritation. He clenches his fists, grinds his teeth, considers the possibilities or murder—but in the end, he knows he’s going to go with her and shut up about it. God, he’s gotten so fucking _soft_ in the past few weeks. Honestly.

A cool presence makes itself known at Trevor’s left shoulder. It’s Alucard (because _of course_ it is) with his hood drawn low over his face, is watching Sypha leave with curious eyes that seem to shimmer in the sunlight like raw amber. His mouth twitches to reveal a faint half-smile accompanied by a single, solitary fang that catches the waning sunlight.

“So passionate,” Alucard says, his voice less cold and aloof than usual. “Such resilience is hard to come by in times such as these.”

Trevor snorts. “You call it resilience. I call it annoying _.”_

“She is spirited.”

“She reminds me of my sister,” he mutters, unthinking.

He regrets the words as soon as they’re past his lips. Alucard’s gaze shifts instantly, falling on Trevor with all the weight of generations of familial betrayal and disappointment. His brows furrow, his smile fades. The dhampir almost looks… sorrowful.

“You have a sister,” Alucard repeats carefully.

“Had,” Trevor corrects. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering, or why he’s still standing here while Sypha marches into a death trap all on her own. He really should follow her—shouldn’t he? “Brothers, too. They all died when the estate burned.” He pauses, feeling a tightness in his throat. “Obviously.”

He expects awkward silence, or perhaps some half-assed condolences because nobody ever gives a shit when it’s not their family. Not really, anyway. No pity is good pity in Trevor’s mind.

“I wasn’t aware,” murmurs Alucard. The sunlight touches the tip of his nose and his skin glows like those flameless candles beneath Gresit. “What was she like?”

“Spitfire personality," he says before he can stop himself.“Tough, too.” _Stop._ “Always liked getting her hands dirty.” _Stop talking._ “Stubborn as a mule.”

Alucard smiles softly. “She was like you, then.”

Trevor’s fingers tighten around the hilt of his shortsword as the joints in his knuckles lock one by one. He sees flashes of pale yellow silk and blue hair ribbons; a dappled pony named Isabelle that got fat on how many sugar cubes Sonia gave her; the impossibly deep crease in her determined brow when father scolded them both for training with Vampire Killer in secret.

He remembers holding her until she went still in his arms, choking on frigid ash as the Belmont family burned around them both.

“No,” Trevor mutters after a moment, biting the inside of his own cheek. He tastes iron, sharp and metallic, and relishes the taste. “She was better.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably continue this, but my other multichaps come first. I at least wanted to publish this and get it off my computer for now. My editors didn't get a chance to read this before I posted this, so any typos are my mistake and I'll fix them soon. Pinkie promise!
> 
> Drop me a line if you enjoyed it. <3
> 
> [Tumblr](https://llaquearia.tumblr.com/) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/llaquearia) | [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/llaquearia)


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